


Somebody Told Me

by firstlightofeos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cerebro, F/M, Humor, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutant Politics, Subterfuge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years after Cuba, the Brotherhood learns of a troubling alliance between Charles and the CIA, threatening Erik and Charles's fragile truce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody Told Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alernun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alernun/gifts).



> My eternal thanks to **professor** and **unforgotten** , who were instrumental in helping me get this fic off the ground, holding my hand every step of the way. You two are the best. <3
> 
> Title is from the eponymous song by The Killers. 
> 
> To **alernun** : I hope you enjoy this! I had a lot of fun plotting it out and writing it, and hope you feel it does justice to your awesome prompt. Happy Christmas/Yuletide/Hanukkah/Solstice/Winter/whatever you celebrate!

Erik adjusts his cape minutely as he surveys the table. His ever-present frown deepens; Frost is late _again_. With any other member of his team, he’d be concerned and possibly send out a search party; but Emma Frost seems to take pleasure in pushing back against Erik’s authority in as many small ways as she can without actively rebelling against him. 

Fine. They’ll start without her—as they do every time.

Just as Erik starts to order Azazel and Mystique to give their report on the state of mutant affairs at the KGB, the doors slam open. Emma Frost sweeps in, her white capelet swirling about her as she strides to her place at Erik’s left. 

“Frost,” Erik says through gritted teeth. “How kind of you to join us. We were just about to start, so if you’ll take your seat—”

She waves her hand dismissively, and makes no motion to sit. “You’re going to want to hear what I have to say first, sugar.”

“I highly doubt that,” Erik snaps. He turns back to Azazel to tell him to get on with it, but Frost cuts in:

“It’s about Xavier.”

That gets everyone’s attention, heads swiveling as everyone looks to see how Erik will react. 

“What about Xavier?” Erik asks coolly, his voice (almost) perfectly steady. The metal frame of Erik’s chair creaks faintly as he grips its back. 

Frost smirks, and it’s all Erik can do to keep from flying at her and throttling her until she tells him if Charles is all right. Despite her constant needling, she (and the rest of the Brotherhood) has learned that some subjects—namely, Charles Xavier and Erik’s relationship with him—are off-limits, so for her to mention Charles now means that something is wrong. Frost has been monitoring the CIA; have they captured Charles? Have they found the mansion? Has Charles been hurt? 

“Frost,” Erik snaps after nearly a minute passes, during which he has come up with worse and worse possibilities—though he stops short of Charles having died. He’d know. Mystique would know. “Spit it out.”

“He’s working with the CIA.”

Well. Erik hadn’t been expecting _that_. He laughs slightly and shakes his head.

“Impossible,” he says. Charles himself had assured Erik that, no matter what he might think about mutant integration or politics, he was done with the CIA, that he would never allow them near him or any of his charges again. If Frost is trying to goad Erik with this, it’s a rather feeble attempt. 

“I saw him,” she retorts. “More to the point, I _felt_ him. He was definitely at the CIA, honey, and it sure as hell looked like he was there of his own free will.”

“Just because he was there doesn’t mean he’s working with them,” Janos cuts in, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “There could be some other explanation.”

Emma scoffs, turning to face the rest of the table a little more directly. “He was looking pretty buddy-buddy with the Director of the CIA, and with that agent, what’s her name, the pretty brunette one who was in Russia with the two of you.” This last bit is addressed directly to Erik.

“MacTaggert,” Mystique answers quietly for Erik, casting a sharp look his way as his chair begins to fold in on itself. “Moira MacTaggert.”

Emma nods. “That’s the one. The three of them were coming out of the building—walking Xavier to his car, or something—and they were saying something about...resurrecting an old project. Xavier said he might have a few resources to contribute, and then the Director thanked him for his help and went back inside.” She pauses, her mouth twisting. “That was all I got before Xavier shut me out. I couldn’t piece together what exactly they were talking about; something about mutant detection?”

“Cerebro,” Erik breathes. He and Mystique exchange significant glances. He’d known Charles had wanted to rebuild Cerebro—but he’d never said anything about helping _the CIA_ rebuild it. If the CIA has Cerebro, _and_ Charles...

The possibilities are too horrible to contemplate.

“All right,” he says, doing his best to keep his anger and fear in check. It won’t do for him to destroy every metal object within a hundred-foot radius when he isn’t even sure if Frost’s information is correct. She could just be making this up to get under Erik’s skin; it would be a low blow, even for her, but the possibility remains. If she _is_ telling the truth, though, they’re going to need a plan—and fast. 

“I’m making this our priority—unless anyone else had any urgent business?” He looks around the table, daring anyone to speak up; no one does. He nods. “Then we’re done here. I want mission briefs on my desk in two hours.” 

There’s a murmur of acknowledgment before everyone stands and files out, whispering among themselves.  
They all know how Erik feels about Charles Xavier, know that he’s never considered him an enemy, not even when they’re facing off against each other. But if Frost is telling the truth, this changes everything. Charles will be making a declaration of war against the mutant community, and Erik will have no choice but to step in and do...something; he’s not sure what.

Of course, he has to make sure Frost isn’t lying first.

He catches Mystique’s eye as she makes her way to the door, then tilts his head and blinks twice. She stops, just shy of leaving. 

“Go on,” she says to Azazel, who’s standing beside her, his tail wrapped around her waist. She makes herself taller and kisses him briefly on the lips. “I’ll catch up.” 

Azazel casts a glance at Erik, then leans in and whispers something in Mystique’s ear. She throws back her head and laughs, slapping him on the arm. “ _Go_ ,” she says again. “I’ll be right behind you.” Azazel pulls her close to him and dips her extravagantly, kissing her thoroughly, and then he vanishes in a cloud of smoke just before she can hit him again. 

She turns to Erik, still laughing; he raises an eyebrow at her. She rolls her eyes and starts walking back over to him, slowly shrinking back to her normal height. When she reaches her chair, she stops and rests her forearms on its back, suddenly turning serious.

“Do you believe it?” she asks. Erik sighs and sinks into his own chair. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, fiddling with the clasp of his cape. “He told me he had no intention of ever working with the CIA again, that Cuba convinced him they’re not the way to go, but...”

“He’s lied before,” she says. He nods. His hand moves from his cape to trace the edge of the helmet, moving back and forth over the lower left-hand corner. 

“Things change,” Erik agrees quietly. 

There’s a long silence, and then:

“You want me to go check,” she says. It’s not a question, but he nods all the same. 

“I don’t trust Frost not to mess with my head. Even with this,” he adds, rapping his knuckles against the helmet.

Mystique’s lips quirk. “You make it too easy for her.” 

“Even so.” He leans back a little and crosses his legs. “I need to know. And you can’t deny that you want to see for yourself, too.”

She hums noncommittally. “I’ll have Azazel take me there now. Anything specific you want me to look for?”

Erik shakes his head. “You know what you’re doing. Now go, and report back as soon as you find anything.” He pauses, then says, “Regardless of what it may be.”

She nods once, straightening up and stepping away from her chair. She whistles piercingly and Azazel _bamf_ s in (faster than he ever does for Erik, the asshole); she leans up to whisper in his ear, he wraps his arm around her waist, and the next moment, they’ve vanished in a cloud of smoke. 

***

Twelve hours later, Mystique bursts into Erik’s room, flips on the light, and dumps a large stack of files on his desk. 

“Frost was right,” she says, her tone clipped. 

Erik gets out of bed—he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, anyway—and picks up the files, leafing through them. Even from a cursory glance, the evidence is incontrovertible: transcripts of recent meetings, records of exceedingly generous monetary donations, and—most damning of all—updated diagrams and technical specifications for a new Cerebro, with notes in both Charles’s and Beast’s handwriting. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any mention of the mansion at all, so perhaps the CIA doesn’t know about it. Yet.

Through all this, Mystique stands in the middle of the room with her arms folded across her chest, barely moving a muscle as she waits for his reaction. 

Finally, once he’s at least glanced through each document, he looks back up at her. 

“Did you see him, or did anyone see you?” he asks. It’s a diversion tactic, a way of giving him some time to collect his thoughts. 

She glares at him. “ _Please_.” Her arms fall to her side and she continues, gentler, “And no, I didn’t see him, but I did hear some guys talking about him. It doesn’t sound like this has been going on for too long, but he has apparently been very helpful in a very short period of time.” She rolls her eyes. “And, of course, they were speculating about whether he was ‘banging that hot piece of ass’ or not. Men.” 

Her tone is casual, but she’s watching him carefully, her gold eyes never leaving his; it’s almost as if she _wants_ him to react. 

Erik raises an eyebrow. 

“What Charles does in his private life, and with whom, is hardly any of our concern,” he says smoothly. He almost believes himself. “I’m much more concerned about this.” He taps the folder in his hands, and Mystique straightens marginally, instantly all business again. 

“Did you see that note, the one on the last page of the last file?” she asks.

“I don’t remember—”

“You’d remember.” She strides over to the desk, pulls out the file in question, and flips open to the last page. She points at a few lines of scribble, squashed in at the very bottom of the page, which Erik had initially overlooked. At first glance, they didn’t appear important, and the handwriting is nearly indecipherable—but now that Mystique is directing his attention to it, he sees what she’s talking about. 

_Asset has volunteered to assist in efforts to neutralize and capture members of the terrorist group known as The Brotherhood, specifically their leader, Erik Lehnsherr (a.k.a. Magneto), and hopes to use Project C to aid with this..._

The file crumples in Erik’s hand, along with half the metal furniture in the room.

“What do we do?” Mystique asks quietly. 

Erik starts pacing as he thinks. Charles has to be stopped, but the more immediate concern is Cerebro; if they can take out the threat posed by the machine, they’ll have time for Erik to deal with Charles properly. 

“Cerebro first, Charles second,” he decides. He runs his hand through his hair, pauses, does it again. It takes him a few moments to remember just why that feels so odd; the instant he remembers, the helmet flies over to him from its place on his nightstand. He knows Charles is far enough away that he can’t touch Erik, but it’s still better to play it safe—and Erik’s still not sure what angle Frost is playing. 

“Were you able to get near anything from Cerebro besides the plans?” he asks, resuming his pacing. 

“No,” she says. “I couldn’t even get a hint of where they’re building it, let alone where they’re keeping whatever parts of it they have. Even getting those files was more complicated than it should have been; they’re keeping this whole thing more hush-hush than the Kennedy Assassination investigation.” 

“We could send Frost—”

“This whole thing stinks of Charles, Erik, do you really think he won’t notice her hanging around, or her fingerprints in the minds of the CIA officials? It’s one thing for him to notice her spying on the agency; it’s another thing for him to notice her snooping around his pet project.” Mystique shakes her head. “We’re going to have to try to get to him, Beast, or Moira.”

“He’s probably keeping MacTaggert largely ignorant of the specs,” Erik muses, leaning against the edge of his desk. He crosses his arms and tilts his head. “And Beast likely won’t know most of the CIA’s side of things—”

“It has to be Charles,” Mystique says quietly. 

“It has to be Charles,” he echoes with a heavy sigh.

He straightens up and flicks his hand; the closet in the corner of the room flies open, his costume sailing out and landing on the bed. 

“I’ll go assemble everyone,” she says briskly as he walks to the bed. “Conference room, twenty minutes?”

“Make it ten,” he says, stripping out of his sleep shirt. “And we don’t need everyone; just Azazel, Frost, and you.” He pauses, holding his gloves in his hand while he runs through his mental roster of the Brotherhood’s members, making sure he hasn’t forgotten anyone. “And Riptide.” 

“Aye aye, captain.” She grins, throwing him a sloppy salute. 

As soon as Erik hears the door close behind her, he sinks onto the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs. 

“Charles,” he sighs. “Why must you always make everything so complicated?”

As ever, there’s no answer. 

***

Even with Erik's team's particular advantages, kidnapping a telepath, and especially one as powerful as Charles Xavier, is anything but simple. They manage to do it, however, with surprisingly few complications, and within forty-eight hours, Charles is unconscious and manacled to a chair in one of the Brotherhood’s safe houses, with Erik watching over him. 

No one else has come with them. 

On the one hand, it’s not safe for anyone without Erik’s helmet to be around Charles. On the other hand, this is personal for Erik, and he refuses to let anyone else handle it. He trusted Charles’s word—and if Charles has reneged on his promise to Erik to stay away from the CIA, then it is Erik who should decide what to with him. 

To at least partially cover their tracks, Frost has left ransom notes: one, on Charles’s pillow, demands money and Beast’s plans for Cerebro; a second, left in Moira MacTaggert’s apartment, demands every part of Cerebro still with the CIA—files, machinery, etc.; a third, left with the CIA, demands the CIA destroy Cerebro and cease all activities with or against mutants. They’re not likely to get anything they’ve asked for, but it’ll give Erik the seventy-two hours he needs to get something—hopefully everything—out of Charles. And if they’re very, very lucky, maybe fear will spark someone to slip up somehow, and when they do, the Brotherhood will pounce. 

Erik tugs at the neck of his jacket as the heat in the room starts to get to him. He considers removing the cape—but no, he _needs_ to be Magneto now, can’t let himself feel complacent or shuck his armor just because he’s a little physically uncomfortable. 

The sedative he’d used on Charles is due to wear off in two hours, anyway, according to Riptide, and Erik is inclined to take his word for it; the man knows his chemistry far better than Erik (or anyone, really) had anticipated. Erik can handle two hours of being a little warm. 

He settles back in his chair, never taking his eyes off Charles, and waits.

***

True to Riptide’s word, Charles rouses at the end of the second hour of Erik’s vigil. His eyes stay closed, but Erik can see the way Charles stiffens when he realizes he’s in an unfamiliar environment, bound to a chair, and far enough from other minds that they are (Erik presumes) nothing more than a faint murmur in the back of his head. 

(Frost, testing the safe house, had announced with a frown that she couldn’t sense a damn thing, so they ought to be safe with Xavier. Erik wouldn’t have believed her had she not looked so genuinely uncomfortable; she hadn’t been able to leave quickly enough.)

Erik can feel Charles testing the strength of the manacles around his wrists, nudging them a little, just shy of tugging at them. He makes the rings a little tighter, and Charles immediately freezes, though he still doesn’t open his eyes. 

“...Erik?” he says. He sounds uncertain, but not scared. 

“Charles,” Erik replies, his tone as cold as he can make it. 

Charles opens his eyes. He blinks blearily a few times before his gaze latches on to Erik’s. Erik nearly flinches back; Charles’s blue eyes are hard and unforgiving, and hold none of their usual warmth. 

“Erik,” Charles says again, his voice icier than Erik’s. “Would you care to tell me what, exactly, is going on, and why you’ve decided to kidnap me from my bed and hold me in a room—” He looks around disdainfully, and then asks, “Where are we, anyway?”

“Do you really expect me to tell you?” Erik asks, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs at the ankles. 

“I don’t see any reason for you not to,” Charles retorts. 

“And I don’t see any reason to do so.”

“You always have before.” 

“That was different,” Erik replies hotly, unable to hide his flush as he thinks of all the times he’s spirited Charles away for a tryst.

“I can see that,” Charles says dryly, tugging pointedly at his bonds. “You still haven’t explained what’s going on, or why you saw fit to steal me from my bed when you could have just as well chained me up there, if that’s what you really wanted.” He looks at Erik through his lashes and licks his lips, just the barest flick of his tongue. At any other point, that would be Erik’s cue to cross the room and kiss Charles senseless—but no, that isn’t the plan, Erik didn’t kidnap Charles and tie him up for sex (though _there’s_ an idea); he wants _answers_ , and Charles isn’t going to distract him from his mission.

“The CIA,” Erik grits out. He stands up and walks to the other side of the room, just so he won’t have to look at Charles for a moment. 

“The Culinary Institute of America? It’s a fine school, though you’re an excellent cook already, so I don’t think you need to go there. But if you would like, I have a friend on the Board, I could put in a good word for you—”

“ _Charles_ ,” Erik exclaims, whirling around to face him. 

“ _Erik_ ,” Charles replies, deadly serious, his mirth gone as suddenly as it had appeared. “Why don’t you free my wrists and then we’ll talk.” Erik hesitates, and Charles rolls his eyes. “Come on, I’m hardly going to be going anywhere—as you noticed.” He glances down pointedly at his unbound legs. Erik _knows_ Charles is taking advantage of his still-present guilt, but he gives in anyway; with a wave of his hand, the manacles snap open and fall to the floor with a loud _clank_.

“Thank you,” Charles says quietly, putting his hands in his lap and gently massaging his wrists. “Now. You mentioned the CIA.”

He looks completely calm. Either he has no idea what Erik is getting at—which seems unlikely; this is Charles, after all—or he feels no guilt about betraying the mutant community, about betraying _Erik_ —which is far worse a possibility to consider. 

“You’re working with them, working _for_ them,” Erik bursts out. 

“In a sense, yes,” Charles agrees. 

“In a _sense_?” Erik paces, gesticulating wildly as he continues to rant, just so he won’t storm over and throttle Charles with his bare hands. “I’ve seen the documents, Charles, seen the _evidence_ of your involvement with them. You’re helping them rebuild Cerebro, you’re promising them information on mutants, you’re helping them come after us, helping them”—here his voice cracks, and normally he’d be embarrassed, but he’s too hurt by Charles’s treachery to care—“come after _me_.” He turns and faces Charles. “I thought—well. Never mind what I thought.”

“Erik,” Charles says gently, his expression still maddeningly calm. He gestures to the other chair in the room. “Why don’t you sit?”

“I don’t _want_ to sit,” Erik growls. 

Charles sighs. “Fine, then, stand. But you should know: It isn’t what you seem to think it is.”

“Then what is it?” Erik knows he can’t trust anything that comes out of Charles’s mouth, but he still wants to hear what excuses Charles will make, wants to know how gullible Charles thinks he is. Deep down, he _wants_ to be wrong about Charles and the CIA. It’s not possible, of course; the proof is all there in black and white and manila. 

“Cerebro,” Charles says simply. “The CIA has far too much of it. We need to rebuild it; mutants are too scattered right now for us to form a community and properly protect ourselves. But several of the necessary pieces are still in the hands of the CIA, under constant supervision.”

“Yes, which is why you’re rebuilding it with them,” Erik says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I _know_.”

“I’m not,” Charles replies, frowning. “I’m trying to get the parts back so the CIA loses all chance of making a new one. Without Hank, they don’t have anyone who can make it from scratch, but with what they have right now, a scientist with half of Hank’s genius could rebuild it. So I’m...pretending to work with them, so I can get near it.”

Erik shakes his head. Really, does Charles think him so credulous? “You’re a telepath. You could freeze all of them, go into the facility, steal everything, wipe all their minds, and leave them none the wiser.”

“There are too many loose ends; I’ll miss something,” Charles says flatly. “The instant any piece of Cerebro disappears, they’ll come after me—and they’ll come after my school. I will not put my students at risk unless I have no other option.”

“Touching,” Erik says. 

“Practical,” Charles retorts. “You may think me idealistic and naïve, Erik, but I’m not a fool. I _do_ know how to play the long game.” 

“So then why work with the CIA at all, if they won’t even let you anywhere near Cerebro?” Erik still doesn’t trust a word Charles is saying, but he’s willing to play along and see how convoluted Charles’s lie will become. 

Charles smiles. “There are other ways to interfere with the project. I’ve been feeding them bogus technical specifications for weeks, courtesy of Hank; I’ve tied up the money I’ve given them with unreasonably ridiculous conditions; I’ve let them believe entirely untrue things about telepathy and how telepathy—specifically telepathy amplified by Cerebro—works.” He spreads his hands. “Read the files. I know you still have them—careless, by the way, letting Mystique take an entire set of files related to a single project; someone would have noticed sooner rather than later. You’re just lucky it was me and not anyone else.” At Erik’s stunned expression, he laughs. “Oh, my friend, for all Mystique’s skill at infiltration, she is _not_ subtle. And the only other person I know stupid enough to steal CIA files part and parcel with no thought for the ramifications if they’re found missing is you.”

“You didn’t tell them,” Erik says, not quite a question. 

“No,” Charles says. “I covered for you; they just think they’ve misplaced their files. Highly unfortunate for the intern who got fired, but he was planning to steal state secrets and sell them to the highest bidder anyway.”

“Why?”

Charles sighs. “I just told you; I’m trying to bring them down. I’m hardly about to help them in any tangible way.”

“You just told me you’re trying to get Cerebro. That’s hardly trying to bring them down.”

“One step at a time, my friend.” Erik scoffs, uncrossing and re-crossing his arms. Charles tilts his head. “You don’t believe me.”

“Not a word,” Erik replies matter-of-factly. “It’s a good story, though. Plenty of detail, just enough truth for it to be credible. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re lying through your teeth.”

“You didn’t properly read the files, then,” Charles says, raising an eyebrow. “If you had, you’d have noticed that not only have I set them back on Cerebro by at least three years, but I’ve been feeding them false information about the Brotherhood—about _you_ —for ages.” 

“You’re helping them—how did they phrase it—‘ _neutralize and capture_ ’ us,” Erik all but shouts. “How the _hell_ is that feeding them false information?” 

Charles smiles and folds his hands primly in his lap. He raises both his eyebrows and indicates the door with a jerk of his head. 

“Well, go on, then,” he says. Erik gives him a blank look, and Charles explains, “You have the files right outside the door. I don’t need to be able to read your mind to know that. You were planning on throwing them in my face while screaming at me to tell you everything I know and to explain how I could betray you in this way, yes?” Erik doesn’t say anything, but he knows his expression must give him away, because Charles nods briskly and says, “I thought as much. So go grab them, and throw them in my face if you must, but do read them properly first.”

In answer, Erik raises his hand, his fingers splayed. The door bangs open, and all the files fly in, aiming straight for Charles, who, to his credit, hardly flinches. At the last second, Erik diverts the files with a flick of his wrist, and they stack neatly at his feet. Charles exhales slowly, clearly relieved, and then turns his attention to the files. 

“How—”

“Paper clips,” Erik replies shortly.

“Brilliant,” Charles breathes. Erik can’t look away from him. Charles’s eyes are wide and dark, and his cheeks are flushed; even after all this time, he’s still excited by the smallest displays of Erik’s power. “You’re brilliant,” Charles clarifies. Erik clears his throat and looks away, wrestling down the urge to cross the room and show Charles just how brilliant he can be. Charles betrayed him. Charles is his enemy. Charles is his enemy, Charles is his enemy, Charles is his enemy.

If he says to himself it enough times, maybe he'll believe it. 

“Yes, well,” Erik says gruffly. He levitates the first file in the stack, and it lands in his hand with a loud _smack_. He flips it open to a diagram of—well, something that might have been an early Cerebro schematic once upon a time, but which now looks more like a mess of red and black ink. The calculations and reasoning are 40% accurate, 30% bogus, and 30% guesstimation; but it’s only now, when he’s actually reading carefully, and looking for mistakes, that he notices. Close examination of the next several pages reveals the same pattern, which supports what Charles has been saying—but it’s only one file. 

Charles stays silent while Erik methodically works through the files. He feels something in his chest loosen as he finds the same sort of pattern in all of them; Charles has given just enough truths and half-truths for the CIA to trust his word, and then filled in the remaining blanks with lies ranging from the believable to the ridiculous. He laughs loudly—perhaps a little too loudly, but he can’t quite hide his relief—when he finds the profile they’ve been keeping on the Brotherhood. The CIA’s information was obviously correct at first, hence why Erik hadn’t noticed anything amiss while skimming (he’d also been too hurt at Charles’s betrayal to _want_ to read the files about him carefully, but that’s neither here nor there), but Charles had...added some color (quite literally, given the liberal use of red pen). 

“I can create wormholes, Charles?” he asks, looking up from where he’s seated cross-legged on the floor, files scattered around him. 

“I think you actually could, if you applied yourself to it,” Charles says, thoughtful, “but they think you can make them now, and at will, so they’re pouring large sums of money into researching wormholes and ways to defend against them.” He smiles wickedly. “If you’ll, ah, turn to the next page, there’s a little more...”

“ _Magneto’s main ability is not, as has been postulated, metallokinesis, but rather ferrokinesis; that is, he can only manipulate iron and other magnetic materials, as his powers are limited to the manipulation of electromagnetic fields (hence his ability to create wormholes, mentioned earlier). Therefore, it is highly recommended that anyone intending to battle or capture Magneto be armed with bullets made of pure gold, an entirely non-magnetic material, and that a stock of these be made immediately_ —” Erik’s laughter makes it impossible for him to continue. 

Finally, once he’s stopped gasping for air, he asks, “They aren’t honestly making gold bullets, are they?”

In answer, Charles, just tilts his head and smiles. Erik’s eyes widen. 

“How did you get them to do _that_? There are other non-magnetic materials they could have used.”

“Ah, but none holds quite the _panache_ that gold does,” Charles says. “Imagine the headlines: _MAGNETO KILLED WITH SOLID GOLD BULLET: Nation rejoices, value of gold skyrockets_.”

“That’s exactly what you said, isn’t it.”

“To the word.”

Erik laughs again and tosses the file aside, rising to his knees. “How have they not realized you’ve been playing them all for fools all these months?”

Charles taps his temple with a smirk. Erik rolls his eyes. Of course. 

“To be honest, though,” Charles says, “it’s amazing how much people will simply believe anything you say without question if you’ve convinced them you’re an expert on whatever you’re talking about.” 

“And you’re an expert on me,” Erik says, half-joking. 

Charles just looks at him solemnly and says, “I would hope you think so.”

And now Erik can give in to his instincts, can stop fighting the urge to respond to a statement—and a look—like that. 

“I do,” he says quietly. He moves forward until he’s seated just in front of Charles. He takes Charles’s hand in his and kisses it, his thumb stroking Charles’s palm. “I do,” he says again.

Charles’s breath hitches, and he reaches out to stroke Erik’s cheek in turn, his hand tracing the edge of the helmet. Erik shudders and closes his eyes, using his powers to pull the helmet off his head and toss it aside.

“Oh, _there_ you are,” Charles murmurs, fisting his hands into the front of Erik’s jacket and yanking him up into a firm, thorough kiss. Erik can feel Charles’s mind twining through his, familiar and warm, and he reaches up and places his hands flat on Charles’s cheeks, the tips of his middle fingers brushing against Charles’s temples. Charles breaks away with a gasp. 

“Erik,” he breathes. 

“Mm?” Erik asks, trailing kisses down Charles’s neck now, pausing every so often to nip or suck. He lingers for a particularly long time at the join of Charles’s neck and shoulder, where he’s exquisitely sensitive (even more so since Cuba), and Charles makes a high-pitched sound that is almost a squeak as he clutches Erik closer to him. 

“ _Erik_ ,” Charles says again, more urgently. Erik smirks against Charles’s neck, just staying there for a moment, one hand still teasing at Charles’s temple. 

Charles exhales heavily. He’s still for a moment, and then his hands fly to the hooks of Erik’s jacket, undoing them deftly. Erik pulls back for a moment to shrug the jacket off before surging forward, attacking the buttons of Charles’s pajama top with the same fervor with which he resumes devouring Charles’s mouth. 

_Too many layers,_ Charles thinks petulantly, tugging Erik’s turtleneck out of his waistband. Erik starts to back away to divest himself of that, too, but Charles makes a protesting noise in the back of his throat and pulls Erik into an even deeper kiss. 

“Charles,” Erik gets out, when Charles finally lets up for air. “You can either have me naked or you can have me kiss you; you can’t have both.”

“Make a wormhole and fix that,” Charles murmurs against Erik’s lips. Erik throws back his head and laughs. Charles beams and leans forward to drop kisses along the underside of Erik's jawline, his hands latching back on Erik's turtleneck and rucking it up. He hums contentedly as he traces his fingers along Erik's abdominals, teases at Erik's sides. After a few moments, he tugs more insistently at Erik's turtleneck. Erik takes the hint, pulling off just enough to yank the turtleneck off and toss it aside—and then, for good measure, he stands and removes the rest of his clothing. 

There's something arousing about being completely naked in front of a (somewhat) fully-dressed Charles, even more so when Erik considers that, technically, Charles is _his_ prisoner, that he's kidnapped Charles and is holding him for ransom. It's a heady feeling, and it grows as Charles looks him up and down appraisingly—they do this every time, each taking a moment when the other is naked to appreciate what has changed since their last meeting, cataloging new muscles and scars and, on one memorable occasion, a tattoo that Charles had got on his back, directly above the twisted pink scar from Cuba. 

"Stop thinking and come _here_ ," Charles growls, reaching out. Erik goes, dropping back to his knees in front of Charles and allowing Charles to yank him into a rough, possessive kiss. 

After a few seconds, Charles's hands move from Erik's face and slide down Erik's neck and torso, following the path just taken by his eyes. He does not linger anywhere, content to simply map Erik's body slowly. His fingers press in a little harder at a sensitive spot just below Erik's shoulder blades, and Erik gasps and breaks away, his head falling back. This gives Charles the opening to duck down and start retaliating for Erik’s earlier treatment of his neck, and Erik's throat arches even more under Charles's mouth, his eyes falling closed as Charles nips and sucks.

Then Charles's fingers latch on to Erik's nipples, pinching and twisting at the same moment he bites down on Erik's pulse point. Erik cries out; Charles smirks against his neck, smug satisfaction radiating off him in waves. He twists again and Erik inhales sharply before his own hands start to fumble at Charles's clothing. The pajama top, already mostly undone, comes off almost immediately; the pants take a little more effort, and require the two of them to (reluctantly) pull apart so Charles can lever himself up properly to slide his pants and boxers over his ass. 

And then they're both naked, in the middle of an interrogation room (Frost's term, not his) in a Brotherhood safe house, files printed with “CLASSIFIED” scattered all over the floor, Charles seated in the chair to which he'd been cuffed a little over an hour ago. Struck by the absurdity of the situation, Erik starts laughing. Charles looks confused for a moment, but then Erik projects _why_ he's amused, and Charles joins in, both of them laughing slightly hysterically until there are tears in their eyes. 

Eventually, their laughter tapers off, and they settle back, regarding each other seriously for a moment. Then Charles puts out a hand. Erik takes it, letting himself be pulled into a kiss more desperate than any of the ones previous. Their hands are everywhere, caressing each other's bodies, never resting at any one spot, both just trying to get as much skin contact as possible, to map as much of the other as they can reach. 

_Erik,_ Charles says. The emotions tangled in with it are a complicated mess that Erik's not sure even Charles can decipher, a sense of warmth and love overlying everything. Erik gasps into Charles's mouth, and clutches him closer. 

_Charles,_ he replies, projecting everything he's feeling in return, his arousal and his (waning, but still present) anger and his own love for Charles. Charles moans, his hands fisting in Erk's hair and _yanking_. Erik grunts, and his hands momentarily grip Charles's sides tightly before he moves them to play with Charles's nipples. Charles uses his grip on Erik's hair to move him until his head is level with Charles's nipples as well. Erik, taking the hint, leans forward and takes one into his mouth, suckling enthusiastically and getting saliva _everywhere_. He hears Charles gasp above him, and then Charles is in his mind, telling Erik exactly what he wants him to do. Erik complies, reveling in Charles's increasing shortness of breath and the way Charles's fingers flutter in his hair whenever he does something Charles particularly likes. 

“Erik, Erik,” Charles chants over and over, sounding completely lost. Erik intensifies his attentions, his free hand moving to tease up and down Charles's spine. He keeps his touches light for a while, waiting until Charles starts keening—a telltale sign that Charles is close. 

He sucks even harder at the nipple currently in his mouth, just barely closing his teeth around it and flicking at it with his tongue—and, at the exact same time, he finds Charles's tattoo and he presses down, hard as he can. Charles shouts loudly and arches, and Erik's mind is flooded with a burst of emotions and light, almost like fireworks. Erik doesn't let up, keeps sucking and pressing until Charles starts shoving at his shoulders. 

“Too much,” Charles whines. “Too much, Erik, stop.” 

Erik contemplates ignoring Charles, thinks maybe he can work him up to another orgasm—

“You can't,” Charles says. “I'm done for now, Erik, this is lovely, but I need you to stop.”

Erik stops and pulls back completely, settling back onto his heels and looking up at Charles. He doesn't look wrecked—they haven't done enough for that—but he's breathing heavily, points of color high in his cheeks, his hair damp with sweat, his pupils blown. Erik looks down at Charles's lap surreptitiously, but Charles shakes his head. 

“Doesn't matter,”" he says, and it doesn't. Erik's just felt Charles orgasm in his head, he's hardly going to doubt that simply because Charles's cock didn't ejaculate, or even grow hard. Charles, hearing this, beams, his smile lighting up his entire face. He reaches out and tenderly cups the side of Erik's face, his thumb stroking over Erik's cheekbone. Erik leans into the touch a moment before turning his head and pressing his lips to the underside of Charles's wrist. Charles's thumb pauses in its motion, then resumes its caresses, slightly more present this time, and his palm nudges Erik's cheek until they're facing each other head-on again.

“What would you like, love?” Charles asks quietly. Erik blinks; he had largely forgotten his own erection, but now it makes itself felt with a vengeance, throbbing almost painfully. He thinks for a moment about how to answer Charles; most of what he'd like involves a bed (and he's not putting Charles on the floor), or a slightly less awkward angle than could be achieved with Charles in his current position, or supplies they don't have right at that moment. Charles is clearly listening in, but he says nothing, waiting for Erik to make a decision. 

“I want...” Erik starts, and then trails off. 

“You want?” Charles prompts, his other hand coming up to card through Erik's hair. Erik shivers, leaning into the touch and closing his eyes. He stays there for a moment, basking in the warmth of Charles’s regard, before he stands and places Charles’s hand on his cock. 

“Just this?” Charles asks. 

“For now,” Erik says. Charles’s eyes darken and his hand closes around Erik’s prick, squeezing until it’s just this side of painful. Erik exhales heavily and brings his hands up to rest on Charles’s shoulders, steadying himself.

Charles jerks him off slowly, his hands stroking up and down, tugging every once in a while. As Erik gets closer, Charles moves one hand down to play with his balls, cupping and stroking them in the same steady rhythm. One finger reaches out to stroke Erik’s perineum, and he shudders, gripping harder at Charles’s shoulders and letting his head fall forward. He never takes his eyes off Charles’s hand on his cock. 

Charles gradually starts to increase the speed of his motions, at one point pulling his hand completely off and licking his palm before returning it to Erik’s cock, moving it up and down so fast it’s practically a blur. Erik can feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening and pulling up, and then Charles slides his other hand back to Erik’s ass, his fingers teasing at the edge of Erik’s hole before he pushes one in, and that’s it, Erik’s coming, spilling all over Charles as he whispers obscenities in every language he knows. Charles keeps stroking him through it, milking every last drop from Erik’s cock. Then, as Erik watches, he brings his dripping hand to his mouth and _licks_ , his tongue caressing his fingers obscenely. 

Erik groans. Charles smirks, then pulls Erik down into a kiss. Erik tastes himself on Charles’s tongue, and groans again. He lets his knees go weak, sinking down to kneel in front of Charles without ever breaking away. The desperation of their kiss eases as they both relax, until they’re just moving their tongues languidly against each other, then just their lips, and then finally, Erik eases all the way back, letting his head rest on Charles’s lap. One of Charles’s hands moves to pet Erik’s hair. The fingers of his other hand tangle with Erik’s, and Erik’s thumb sweeps up and down gently. 

They’re silent for a long while.

“What now?” Erik says, eventually, once the silence has shifted from comfortable to oppressive. 

“What now?” Charles echoes. “Well, I’d imagine we go and clean ourselves up, and then maybe take a nap in that bedroom down the hall—yes, I know about it, I found the entire layout of this place in your head, you can’t tell me you’re suprised—and possibly go for another round, and then go out.” He smiles brightly. “I’ve never visited Brazil.”

“Of course you figured that out, too,” Erik grumbles, though it doesn’t have any real fire behind it. 

“Of course,” Charles says indulgently, with a light tweak to Erik’s ear. 

Erik sighs and sits back up, releasing his grip on Charles as Charles’s other hand slides away from his head. 

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he says. “I meant, what about Cerebro, and the CIA, and all of that, what are we going to do about that?”

“Well,” Charles says, “I’d rather thought you and I could join forces and retrieve it.” He looks a little nervous, but also rather pleased, and that’s when it clicks.

“This was your plan all along,” Erik says. “Plant the evidence in the CIA, make me suspect, have me come to you, explain everything, and then make use of my team and my resources.” 

Charles smiles. “Very good,” he says. “In its basic structure, yes, that was the plan. I’ve been trying to get to Cerebro for _years_. First, I was trying through Moira, but they won’t let her anywhere near that project; they kept saying it was too complicated for her pretty little head and she was too vulnerable to manipulation, specifically from me—” He breaks off, his mouth twisting.

“Moira?” Erik asks. “But she’s—”

“On our side,” Charles says sternly. “They tried to kill her on the beach too, if you’ll remember.”

“But you wiped her memories and sent her back to the CIA,” Erik says, now uncertain. “For protection.”

Charles chuckles, obviously pleased with himself. “Moira happens to be a fabulous actress; she was very convincing, but no, I never wiped her memories. She’s been working as a double agent inside the CIA ever since Cuba.”

“And they have no idea.”

“Like I said, she’s a very convincing actress. And she’s been downgraded to desk duty, where they don’t think she’ll be able to do any harm.” Charles tilts his head. “The CIA tends to underestimate women—and not just Moira. They underestimated Miss Frost, too, and still haven’t quite understood just how important Mystique is to your organization.” 

“All right,” Erik says, folding his arms. “So you tried through Moira. And then?”

“And then Moira ran into the same problem Mystique did; the CIA is keeping everything about Cerebro buried so deep that hardly anyone knows where it is—and even if you do, it’s under a level of security so complex that it could almost put a Mandelbrot set to shame.” Charles laughs. “Bless Hank’s heart; he’s the one who designed the security, and he never thought he’d have to work against _himself_. So I approached the CIA through Moira—they think I sought her out, and they certainly trust her far less than they did, given that they think we’re sleeping together—”

“But you’re not,” Erik says, maybe a little too hastily. 

“We’re not,” Charles confirms. “And even if we were, it would hardly be any of your concern.” He smiles a little wickedly. “Why, Erik, were you jealous?”

“Hardly,” Erik scoffs. “Just...curious.” 

“Mmhmm,” Charles says, clearly not believing him, but evidently willing to let it slide. “Regardless of what the CIA thinks of my relationship with Moira, they have come to appreciate that having a mutant on their side—or so they think—is a valuable asset, and they’ve come to...grudgingly appreciate my help.”

“Which is not actually help,” Erik says.

“Which is not actually help,” Charles agrees. “But what they really want is to rebuild Cerebro, and then hold me in perpetuity at their facility, their pet telepath, finding mutants and fighting their wars for them. You should see the way they spoke of using me against the Soviets.” Charles shakes his head and shudders a little. Erik quashes the desire to ask Charles if he’s really surprised, because Erik certainly is not; but Charles had to learn what monsters humans are sooner rather than later, and it’s better if Erik doesn't try to interfere. 

"So you want my help with getting Cerebro and all related materials from the CIA," Erik says. "I still don't see why you can't do it yourself."

"Your team is much more optimized for this sort of thing," Charles says. "You have a teleporter, a shapeshifter, another telepath; and you yourself can get through practically any door and hack any security system." He shrugs. "I'm one telepath; I can't do everything on my own, and effective as my team is, they are ironically more suited to destruction than subterfuge."

It's sound reasoning, but Erik knows there's something Charles isn't saying. He raises his eyebrow, waves his hand, and says, "...And?"

Charles shifts, looking a little guilty. "I can't afford to have any suspicion fall on me or on Moira," he says, finally. 

"So I'm your patsy," Erik says dryly. 

"Not just," Charles disagrees. "I really could use your team.” He shrugs. “But I won’t deny that being able to blame this on the Brotherhood would be...useful.” 

“So you’re using me.”

“Like you planned on using me?” Charles retorts. 

Erik shrugs. “I don’t particularly like anyone pulling my strings, Charles, not even you.” 

“Not even when we’re working against a common enemy?”

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have just _told_ me about Cerebro.” 

“Well, excuse me if I can’t simply pick up the phone to get a hold of you,” Charles snaps. “You know where I am, but I don’t always know where you are. And the last time I carried a message to you through one of your people, you had a temper tantrum at me about how I was undermining your authority. Besides, if anyone had been watching my communications—” 

“Can’t you keep them from that?” Erik says. 

“Being a telepath doesn’t make me omniscient, or allow me to be everywhere. And I can’t just go wiping minds left and right; it’s tiring, and there’s always the chance I’ll change something important without realizing it. The connections the mind makes are...complicated.” 

“So you need me.”

“I need you,” Charles affirms. “And I’m sorry it had to be this convoluted, but honestly, I expected you to show up at the mansion and storm and rage at me, not _kidnap_ me from my own bed.” 

“I didn’t think I could trust you; I thought the instant I showed up, you’d turn me over to the CIA!” Erik says, leaping to his feet. 

Charles folds his arms across his chest, looking defensive. “Well, now you know; I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t ever.”

Erik shakes his head, pointing at Charles. “Never say never, Charles. Things change.”

Charles sighs. “I suppose they do.” 

They regard each other silently. 

Erik is suddenly very aware that they’ve had this entire discussion while completely naked. Charles has obviously come to the same realization, his lips twitching as his eyes sweep over Erik. After a moment, they both burst out laughing, effectively breaking the tension that had settled over the room.

“You mentioned something about getting cleaned up?” Erik says, once they’ve calmed down. 

“Mm,” Charles hums, smiling. “And dinner now, I think; I’m famished.”

“I think we can manage that,” Erik replies, smiling a little. 

“And I still want to explore,” Charles adds. “I’d like to see what Brazilians do for Christmas.”

“Oh, is it Christmas?” Erik asks, completely serious. “I had no idea."

“Day after tomorrow,” Charles grins. “You really had no idea?”

“Christmas isn’t something I typically celebrate, Charles,” Erik points out. 

“Fair enough,” Charles says. “But I still want to experience it while I’m here, at least a little.” 

“I don’t have a present for you,” Erik warns. He feels a little blindsided, but he doesn’t really mind; that’s par for the course when he’s with Charles. 

“Oh, that’s easy.” Charles holds his hands out to Erik. Erik walks back over and slips his hands into Charles’s, and Charles squeezes lightly. “Find a ribbon.” Erik snorts, and then Charles smirks. “Alternately: Build me a Cerebro.” 

Erik rolls his eyes and leans down to plant a kiss on Charles’s forehead. 

“We’ll talk.”


End file.
